


Constellations

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small story about legends, and the solitary men who remember them. Sometimes, they deserve to be retold to the right audience.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>“Some might argue that there is no proper age for fairytales.” Zevran chuckles, his voice carrying in the darkness. “I see you are not one of them.”</p>
<p>“I do think they have their value. I learned my share of Ferelden folklore back in the day. I’ve been surprised to discover how many of the stories have some truth to them.” Especially during Loghain’s travels as a Warden -- and earlier, in bygone days with Maric.  “I suppose there’ll will always be people attempting to make sense of the sky. Why not? We still try to make sense of everything else in this strange world.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t call it ‘sense’ so much as the notion of stories yet to be told. And those depend greatly on who is telling them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellations

It’s late evening, when the sun has set low over the horizon and hastily built barriers guard the camp’s perimeter from nighttime sieges. The more responsible party members have already retired to their tents. Zevran and Loghain are not among them. A new shipment brought in by the trusty merchant Bodahn has included a vial of fine Antivan brandy; promptly claimed by Zev, he’s shared it with his Warden companion over a meal of bread and aged cheese, sitting by the fire in each other’s arms. Now, they’re perched atop a small hilltop just outside the party camp, a borrowed blanket spread out beneath them, their armor shed and replaced by lightweight commoner clothing that fits comfortably in the humid night air.

Loghain seems to be admiring the stars. Zevran is admiring him.

The general sits back, exhaling with a soft sigh, and leans back, letting his head fall back onto Zev’s chest. Feeling the brief touch of agile elven hands on his neck and then fingers running gently through his black hair, he settles in, shoulders pressing up against Zev, who sits all too happily behind him, accepting the weight. “It’s fortunate our disappearance hasn’t been noticed.”

Zev rests against a tree stump, the remaining relic of some unfortunate oak that dared flourish atop this tiny hilltop only to be felled for firewood weeks ago. The bark is scratchy against his back through the thin clothing, and he wriggles a bit, satisfying the itch with a soft sigh of relief. “Anyone with half a mind could find us, you know.” A pause for effect. “Fortunately, that rules out at least a quarter of our group.”

Loghain snorts in spite of himself, a dry laugh matched with a raised eyebrow. “Very charitable of you to include only a fraction of them.” Nimble fingers toy with his hair again, massaging his temples and tracing his hairline, and he stretches out a little more, long legs reaching past the end of the blanket. The mabari, who has accompanied them, is sleeping happily at the base of the hill, legs twitching, dreaming about the thrill of the hunt. Somebody back at camp is snoring loudly enough that even Loghain can hear it. “I miss the comforts of civilization, but it’s good to be away from the city. Somehow, the air is clearer. I can breathe more freely.”

“Without the burdens hanging over you that might come from a stay in Denerim, I imagine.”

“Yes.” Loghain lets out a shuddering sigh and closes his eyes, lying back in Zev’s lap. “There is also that.”

“You’re right, though.” Zev rubs his shoulders soothingly through the thin blue cloth, a finely woven shirt in a tone that flatters Loghain’s fair skin. “Excluding the fact that we have more than one reason to stay away from proper society. A golem, an apostate, a drunken dwarf… well, it’s a miracle there’s been no accidental civilian deaths since we started our travels.”

“Mm.” Loghain casts a furtive gaze in the direction of the party camp. “I don’t think those three have been brought on a mission together. Or have they? Clearly, I wasn’t here to see.”

“They might have come along to the Deep Roads. I know the Warden brought more than a few of us to Orzammar. Not me, though. Apparently I am far too valuable to risk on such a quest.” Zev gives an impertinent little grin. “Tell me, do you think I am equally distracting to every Warden, or just you?”

“Knowing our Warden, I strongly suspect it’s just me.” Loghain groans, but with a faint smile. “So did you watch over the party camp, then, while the group was off wandering the dwarven halls?”

“Yes, I certainly did. Just me, Grandmother Wynne, and our steadfast qunari friend. Not to mention Alistair, but…” He feels Loghain’s shoulders stiffen a bit under his touch. “...yes, let’s not mention him. You’ll be pleased to know I took the mabari for a walk every morning. I also cooked breakfast and did the laundry.”

“How perfectly responsible of you.” Loghain tilts his head back to look up at Zev, whose smile widens a little bit, brushing a strand of blond hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear self-consciously. He dips his head down to brush his lips gently against Loghain’s, which prompts a bit of self-conscious throat-clearing and studiously gazing up at the night sky. “The stars are rather lovely tonight.”

Zev pulls Loghain into his arms again, wrapping them firmly around his solid torso and resting his narrow chin on Loghain’s sturdy shoulder. “They always are, but especially right now. It has been a long time since I sat and viewed the constellations. The last time was when I was hiding out on a rooftop, trapped there until dawn. I found a way to pass that dreadful night by remembering what the Dalish taught me about the stars. Connecting the dots, so to speak.”

Loghain stirs at the slight touch to his skin. Zev’s fingers tenderly trace the line of his neck, resting in the hollow between his collarbones before lightly taking a handful of the shirt’s cloth. He hears a suggestive lilt in Zev’s voice, and senses the opportunity for a story. “And why were you hiding out on a rooftop? Dare I ask?”

“Hmm... that is a tale for another time.” A light laugh, and a smirk that Loghain senses without even glancing back at him. “Let it suffice to say it had something to do with an assassination.”

“So it always seems.” Loghain steals another glance up at the sky, shifting his weight forward on the blanket to give him a better, uninterrupted view, and then leaning back with his head resting against the crook of Zev’s neck. Zev’s hands are warm, tracing idle patterns through the fabric of Loghain’s shirt, sensing the rise and fall of his chest with every breath and the steady thud of his heartbeat. Loghain finds this relaxing in unexpected ways, and the feeling of another man’s touch is pleasurable, in a way he knew all too briefly.

It’s a long moment of silence, filled with the chirping of crickets and the low hoots of owls in treetops, before he breaks the still air, voice cracking a little. “Tell me about these constellations, then, Zevran. If you would be so kind.”

“Anything for you, my love.” A soft kiss to the top of Loghain’s head, the flavorful bite of brandy faintly noticeable on Zev’s breath. “Where shall we start? The horse, or the tree, perhaps? The owl? How about the warrior holding the decapitated head?”

Loghain laughs in spite of himself, glancing upward at the dark sky and vivid stars. “Maric used to love those tales, but all I ever see is a few disconnected shapes. How the storytellers manage to picture such things is completely beyond me.”

“Ah, well, you are a very sensible man. Sensible men don’t spend their time staring up at the sky, hoping to find images of old gods and elven legends.”

“You say that as though I don’t have time to indulge flights of fancy. I did read Anora plenty of fairytales, when she was the age for it.”

“Some might argue that there is no proper age for fairytales.” Zevran chuckles, his voice carrying in the darkness. “I see you are not one of them.”

“I do think they have their value. I learned my share of Ferelden folklore back in the day. I’ve been surprised to discover how many of the stories have some truth to them.” Especially during Loghain’s travels as a Warden -- and earlier, in bygone days with Maric. “I suppose there’ll will always be people attempting to make sense of the sky. Why not? We still try to make sense of everything else in this strange world.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘sense’ so much as the notion of stories yet to be told. And those depend greatly on who is telling them.” Zevran points up at a patch of sky with a pattern of particularly vivid glimmering stars, casting their pinpricks of blazing light down alongside the twin moons of Thedas. “Take this one, then. Equinor. The horse. Do you see it?”

“Not in the slightest.” Loghain squints up at it. “This really does require a creative mind, doesn’t it?”

“More creative than mine, at least. To be perfectly honest, I don’t see it, either.” Zev thinks back, recalling the story. It’s been years since he heard it from the Dalish keeper, and almost that long since he tried to retell it to anyone else. “They call it the Stallion, a rearing horse. Others, however, claim it depicts a griffon. Very dear to you Grey Wardens, I’m sure.” A soft laugh, and a playful tug on the collar of Loghain’s shirt. “You know, if they still offered a griffon upon recruitment, I might have joined your ranks already.”

“Don’t remind me about the griffons. I consider it a terrible loss for Thedas.” Loghain’s affinity for trusty companion-beasts evidently is not limited to just mabari. He groans, but leans into the touch, following the pull of Zev’s hand only to find another kiss placed on his lips, tasting of sweet sharp liquor. “Mm… go on, then.”

“Ah, but here’s the catch. Originally, the constellation was believed to be a halla.”

“One of the Dalish stags, then.”

“Precisely. But with the Chantry’s rise… well, you know what they say.”

“Let me guess. Was it overwritten according to the Chantry’s chosen image?”

“Something like that, yes. Most of the other constellations began with an elven origin, actually. Thousands of years ago, before everything fell to pieces, of course.” Zev’s fingers idly unbutton the top button of Loghain’s shirt, running his fingers across bare skin and prompting a faint shiver from the man. “Then the Imperium renamed the constellations to match the names of their dragon gods, and after that, when the Chantry and other influence took hold… well, none of the stars stood a chance.”

“Nor did anyone else, indeed.” 

Clouds shift overhead, and moonlight pierces down through the haze to illuminate the hilltop, casting Loghain’s face into light and shadow. He has the sad eyes of a lost pup and the furrowed brow of a man who has spent a lifetime in worry. But as the assassin’s touch courses over him, a soft, hesitant smile appears, in the fashion of someone who has almost forgotten how.


End file.
